Mairona West’s Neighborhood

There's recently been a little bit of controversy in the Cincinnati area, over a billboard of all things. You might wonder if it's the WB or CW (or whatever the trashy teenager TV station is in your area) fanning the flames of suburban discontent by posting sexually explicit images of their latest barely legal teen drama rife with sex, lies and booze. That's usually the offender around here anyway. Show a little too much skin on a billboard or commercial, and somebody's bound to get twisted up about it. But no, the WB wasn't the perpetrator this time. It was this:

Billboard

*Although it is hard for me to make such a painfully personal post public, I'm going to do so, because I feel so strongly about this issue, that I want to share this with anyone who would like to read it.

Hi, my name is Prairie, and I'm a recipient of socialized medicine.

Gasp! It's such a dirty word, socialized. It means that dastardly inept behemoth known as the federal government makes life and death decisions about my care. It clearly means I must wait in long lines, and be denied access for lack of resources. I might even die before I receive life-critical care. And in the case that I'm in one of those life or death situations, it looks like a death panel  might make that fateful decision whether I live or die.

Right?

Um, not so much. I *love* the rhetoric going around about so-called socialized medicine from completely uneducated sources who have never experienced this care themselves. Except of course for the Senators and House members blustering and frothing at the mouth over the injustice of government-run and paid for care...who receive taxpayer subsidized care themselves. I can't be the only one who finds the hypocrisy hilarious.

*Ahem* Anyway. Let me tell you a little bit about government run care, since I actually know what I'm talking about. Husband and I receive all of our care at a Military Treatment Facility (MTF), a giant hospital that houses primary care, acute care, emergency care, optical, dental, surgical, cosmetic, dermatological, prenatal and labor and delivery care, and an in-house lab and pharmacy as well. Each time I need something, anything, I call the appointment line and say "I need an eye exam," or "I need to sign up for the birthing class on-base" or "I have a 102 degree fever...where do I go?" and so on. I am routed to the clinic that deals with my need, and I make an appointment. So let me tell you the kind of care husband and I and our children have received there, and what it cost us.

At the age of 7, our first child was diagnosed with Ewing's Sarcoma. After a CT scan revealed a mass on her kidney, the base referred us out to the the Children's Medical Center in the area for the highly specialized care they could offer for pediatric cancer. She had two surgeries, and subsequently spent eight months in chemotherapy and radiation for cancer. She was on weekly fluid packs that pumped drugs and fluids through her body, as well as about 10 prescriptions weekly. She had in-home nurse care to maintain her broviac catheter, a catheter that was placed in her chest, and protruded from the skin around the area of her heart for easy medicine injection. We were given all medical supplies to take care of her broviac site at home by ourselves. In fact, they gave duplicates of everything to two homes, since she lived with both her mother and us during that time. This included drugs, syringes, dressing change kits, medical gauze by the pound, even alcohol swabs. Her in-hospital meals were even provided. After remission, she was provided with monthly CT scans, and quarterly PET scans, as well as tri-monthly bloodwork to monitor her remission. Because we asked for it, the hospital gave us the bills charged to the military healthcare network. To date, her care has been over $600,000 and counting. Our Cost: $0. 

After a year of unsuccessfully trying to get pregnant when we were 28, husband and I realized something was probably wrong. I first saw an OB on-base, then a reproductive endocrinologist who began fertility testing on both of us. We underwent extensive testing, after which the endocrinologist determined intra-uterine insemination (IUI) or in-vitro fertilization would be our only option to conceive. He immediately put me on Clomid and HcG injections to begin IUI cycles. As a money saving option, they gave me patient teaching for HcG and taught me to inject myself with the necessary drugs via an 18 gauge needle  in my thigh each month. It was a bit frightening at first, but not exactly rocket science. When Clomid didn't work for me, he switched me to Tamoxifen and began giving me Estrogen pills as well. I received ultrasounds to monitor follicle size multiple times each month. I received the IUI procedures on-base, in a small office in the women's health center clinic. On the second cycle, I conceived. I got pregnant! The average cost of IUI for a couple is about $10,000, which is rarely covered by any insurance company. Our Cost: $0.  

My prenatal care for baby was on-base. I received all OB care, pregnancy lab work and exams, and prescriptions onsite. I picked up my prenatal vitamins and occasional other scripts at the in-house pharmacy. When I developed severe migraines during my second trimester, I received a MRI scan of my brain, hormone testing and audience with a maternal-fetal medicine doctor to determine treatment. Our Cost: $0.

I delivered baby at the MTF. I had a midwife, OB, and two nurses with me for the entire delivery. I had a nasty fever and infection during birth, and baby was born with signs of the infection. She was treated immediately upon birth. I also received an epidural, and multiple injections during labor to treat the fever and infection. I stayed at the hospital for three days, and they provided meals for both husband and me, and gave me a "Mom's kit" upon exit, with all of the things necessary to heal after birth. Things one would normally have to send husband to the pharmacy to get (pads, cooling foam, witch hazel pads--which I don't mention to share TMI, I mention because these are not typically hospital freebies!). In addition, baby and I were both sent home with antibiotics to treat the delivery infection. Typical cost of a birth in the United States without complications? Around $8,000. Our Cost: $0.

Ten days after baby was born, I started showing signs of infection again. High fevers, chills and general flu-like symptoms. I called my OB, and she sent me to the emergency room. Turns out I had mastitis, and retained birth matter in my uterus, causing a uterine infection. After multiple ultrasounds, I had a D&C and stayed in the hospital for four days. The hospital even issued me a free breast pump during that time so I could continue breastfeeding. Our Cost: $0.

When baby was seven months old, it became apparent that there was something wrong with her neck. She could not lift it to one side, and she had not rolled over from back to belly, nor had she made moves to crawl. She would scream excruciating bloody murder when I put her on her belly. We brought her in to the doc, to find that she had torticollis, a condition in which the neck muscle on one side has not developed properly, and becomes painfully tight. The child can usually not even lift their head to center. She was referred to Children's Medical Center, where she received three months of physical therapy to correct the condition. Our cost: $0.

And so on and so on and so on. You get the idea. I present this not to present a sunshiny image of government run medicine, but to tell you that I get what I need, and I get it in the same way one might in the private sector. The only difference? I have never received a bill, not even a piece of paper upon discharge or at any appointment. I've never made a co-pay. I've never paid for a prescription, even though our script bills between us and two kids has run into the thousands of dollars in one year's time. I had procedures not even considered by private insurance companies....for free.

Do I have complaints? Yep. Because I am not presenting a one-sided biased argument here, I will share a few.

I frequently see residents for primary care. Never for specialized care, however.

I never have to wait for acute or emergent care, but I do have to wait for primary care, unless I am ill or in immediate need. Example? When I called for my yearly eye exam one time, I was told there were no appointments available for thirty days, and I should call back when they opened the calendar for the following month. This is the only time something like this happened.

The prenatal care feels too clinical sometimes. It is not in a quiet doctor's office...it is in a clinic.

I am assigned to a team for routine or primary care, meaning I can't always get in to see my PCM, or my OB, and I might have to see one of their numerous partners.

Most of my complaints about my care revolve around the fact that the care has become less convenient for me. I sometimes have to wait in the lab to get bloodwork. Sometimes the doc has not turned in my prescription to the pharmacy and I have to wait even longer while they'll call her and track down the script. I sometimes have to argue for a referral to the private sector for specialized care. Parking sucks. With retirees, active duty and dependents served by the same facility, the patients seen at this facility number in the tens of thousands. I am especially prone to complaining when I am pregnant and forced to park in a desolate corner of the hospital lot.

I believe every petty gripe I have here is pretty common in the private sector as well. It's important for me to note that most of my complaints are tied up in the fact the this is a military facility that has been decimated by deployment of doctors, nurses and techs overseas for the war effort, thereby reducing personnel at home. I am certain that a public option would have issues of its own...but here's the bottom line: In our ten years in-service, we've racked up over a million dollars in medical care, due to some unforeseen, and nearly catastrophic medical issues in our family. And we haven't paid a dime. We are not bankrupt or drowning in medical bills, and we have NEVER BEEN DENIED care for anything. And I'm still alive. A little inconvenienced at times, but alive and healthy. And I have two children, ONLY because the government paid for the treatment of one, and the conception of the other. And for that, I am eternally grateful for my public option. And eternally humble because I got it, while others did not and continued to be denied. It doesn't seem right, does it?

I'll let the government decide my care options any day over a for-profit, soulless insurance company. 

So I have mixed feelings about the new show Community. Not surprisingly, this is probably related to the fact that I work at a community college. I cringed a little when I saw the initial commercials for the pilot because I knew that the gist of the show was going to be brutal mockery of the community college climate. Now, I'm not one who is too sensitive to laugh at the comic vulnerability of groups I belong to. There's a lot of humor to be found in marriage, the military, parenthood, my working class background, and various other aspects of my makeup. And yes, in any college there is ample humor to be found, as some of my past blog posts will evidence.

I wanted to like you, Community. On top of the fact that I am big  fan ofJoel McHale and John Oliver (anything associated with the Daily Show = good in my book) , I am craving a cure for the ailing, ridiculous excuse that is the sitcom in modern America. The cheap laugh tracks, the tired, played out jokes about marital life or the single life or parenting or, or, or...I am bored to TEARS with primetime television. I was hoping desperately for another 30 Rock or Arrested Development to break up the drivel of weeknight comedy. 

Alas, I'm disappointed. On top of the fact that the writing is lukewarm, I felt some of the jokes are a little, well, mean-spirited. About life at a community college. About the student body. About the quality of the education. I couldn't help feel a little put off by the opener to last night's show: "Higher Learning. Lower Standards. Community." They refer to the college as a "toilet shaped like a school." There are students urinating in the bushes outside a faculty member's office. The student personas are all grossly exaggerated--insulting stereotypes of single, saucy black moms; the neurotic, perky do-gooder; the befuddled, sexual-harassing geriatric; or the washed-up high school athlete still trying to relive his football glory days. Come on guys. Can't we do better than that? I mean they've made every person who attends the school on the show a complete idiot...except of course for Jeff Winger (Joel McHale) who is super cool in his disdain of his surroundings. I wasn't just put off because a two-year college was referred to as a toilet, I was a little offended on behalf of the people who start their academic journey at a two-year college. The laughs at their expense seem a little cheap. Are we supposed to believe that students at a four-year or private college are somehow better, somehow don't suffer from the totally realistic life circumstances (single parenting, going back to school later in life) that provide such cheap fodder on this show? 

So, Community, let me set the record straight for you. Let me tell you a few things about community college. While there are typical student antics, student antics are funny when they are funny, not because you make blatant and overwrought generalizations about vulnerable populations that attend two-year college. Making fun of the quality or place of education can only be funny if it's based on realistic humorous aspects of education, not you pretending like kids pissing outside an office window is an every day school occurrence and knee-slapping funny.

Here's something else: the local community college is the only place that marginalized, non-college-prepared students might find a home. A home that makes the difference between unemployment/burger flipping job prospects for the rest of their life, and a meaningful trade or profession where they contribute to the community, their families and the lives of their children. It is the place where the single mom (but not the idiot single mom of Community who bakes brownies for a crackpot protest she doesn't understand) can attend online or at night, so that she might teach her own children that college and a better life is within reach. It is the difference between being saddled with $100,000 in college debt, or half that because you started your college career at a place where the curriculum standards are exactly the same as any other institution, but half the price. It is the place (often the only place) where fundamental reading and writing (of the grammar school variety) are taught, so that the student who can't read or write beyond a fourth grade level might gain the skills sorely lacking from an appalling public school education and go on to succeed at the college level. It is a soft place to land for students lacking skill, confidence, money, the belief that college is right for them, or even the time to go to college until they are well into their 30s or beyond. It is the true definition of community: any and all are welcome here, with the goal of access to education for all.

I'm really not a soapbox here, I swear. I'm not offended by the concept of the show per se, just the low-blow humor at the expense of people like those I deal with every day. When I think of the absolutely heartbreaking stories I've heard in my years here, and the pride those students take in saying I'm finally in college! I feel a little defensive on their behalf. I would hate to think of any of my students watching this show and feeling bruised or embarrassed to be associated with an education like theirs or worse, that the idiots on the show are somehow representative of them and their fellow students. 

So, don't be surprised if, in spite of my high hopes....I'm not exactly rooting for Community to succeed. At the very least, I submit to the writers--do your homework a little better. Make it funny, not mean.       

Roger Moore as The Saint

Once upon a time, a man died and went up to Heaven, where Saint Peter was waiting for him at the Holy Gates.

“I’m very sorry,” said Saint Pete, “but I can’t let you in.”

The man was shocked and very disappointed.  “Why not, Saint Peter?” he asked. “Wasn’t I a good man on Earth?”

“You were a very good man, indeed,” replied Saint Pete.“But here’s what your problem was – you could not stop yourself from telling other people how to lead their lives. If they were making a mistake of some kind, you felt compelled to point it out to them.”

Once again, the man was shocked by Saint Peter’s words. “But I don’t understand, Saint Peter. Why was this a bad thing? I was just trying to help them. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do on Earth -  help people?”

“Not in this instance,” replied Saint Peter sternly. “You never learned to mind your own business. And for that reason, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to Hell.”

The man pleaded with Saint Pete. “Please, Saint Peter, I didn’t mean any harm. I was just trying to help, that’s all. I didn’t know I was doing a bad thing. Please, please, give me another chance?”

Saint Peter looked at the man and could see that he honestly hadn’t meant any harm. Because that was so, he thought that perhaps he might bend the rules…just this once.  However, before he did, he would test the man’s sincerity. Unbeknownst to the man, of course.

“All right,” decided Saint Pete. “I’ll go to the Higher Ups and see what I can do. In the meantime, you wait in that room over there. Just go in, and close the door behind you.”

The room to which the man had been directed was large and empty, save for a bench. As directed, he closed the door as he went in, and sat on the bench, waiting for his verdict. And as he sat, he noticed there was a narrow, open archway which led to an anteroom at the far side, opposite to where he was sitting.

As he was pondering what might be in the anteroom, the door he’d closed opened, and an angel came in. He was carrying a very tall ladder.

“Hello,” said the angel. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you mind if I come through? I’ve just got to take this ladder and leave it in that anteroom over there.”

“Please, go right ahead,” said the man. “You don’t need my permission.”

And then, an odd thing happened. The man watched as the angel walked across the room towards the anteroom, turned his ladder horizontally in his arms,  and attempted to walk through the narrow archway with it. Naturally, he was unable to get through, as the ladder held horizontally was now much too wide.

The man observed with incredulity as the angel made attempt after attempt to get through the archway while holding the ladder thusly. Each time, the ends of the ladder banged against the wall on either side of the opening, propelling the angel backwards, and making quite a mess of the walls it kept hitting, in the process.

Naturally, after about fifteen minutes of this, the angel was winded and perspiring.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t realize this was going to be so difficult.”

The man couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you serious?” he blurted. “If you want to get through, hold the damn ladder vertically!”

The angel shook his head and looked at the man regretfully. “My friend," he said, “this ladder’s not damned, but you are.”

And the next thing the man knew, he was in Hell.

_______________________

I can’t remember how old I was when my father told

 me the story above, but I was still young enough that

my questions were only just starting to become

annoying to him.  Those questions were on every

subject from “Why do you support the war in Vietnam?”

to “Why don’t you ever do anything to stop all the

terrible things going on in this house?”

Since he couldn’t seem to come up with any reasonable

answers for me, the parable above was an attempt to

stave off the inevitable, which was that my

questioning of him would eventually go

from annoying to unbearable… for both of us.

Even my response to this story was not what he’d

hoped. He thought I’d feel forewarned that my quixotic

nature was taking me closer to Hades every day.  But

ironically, all it prompted was another litany of

questions: “What kind of angel is stupid enough to

behave like a human?” and “What kind of God would

send a man to Hell for questioning human stupidity?”

It wasn’t until many, many years later that I recognized

that my father had a point, though perhaps not in the

way he’d believed. Anyone at all, with an average

human intelligence, understands very well which

way one needs to hold a ladder in order to get it

through a narrow archway. But pretending that he

doesn’t, he accomplishes one thing – he can tell himself

he tried to get through with everything he had and

just couldn’t succeed.

The fact is, he doesn’t want to succeed. He says

he has to get through a door and deposit a ladder in

an anteroom, but he doesn’t truly want to.

He just wants to pretend to himself and everyone

else, that he really, really tried.

And because this is actually what he wants – that

illusion of the attempt of a completion of a 'task', which is

another word for a ‘change’ – rather than the actual

change – he doesn’t want anyone to point out to him

that his ‘attempt’ is in actuality no attempt at all.

He doesn’t need anyone getting in the way of
his self-deception. Like my father, it will more  
than irritate him,  because by pointing it out, making him aware that you are aware that he’s lying to himself, you will make him hate himself and, as a result, (especially if your own attempts at change are real, and your desire to help him  is motivated out of genuine caring, rather than smug superiority) – he will hate you, too.

A fast way to hell, indeed.

Remember that the next time you

(metaphorically) observe an intelligent adult holding a ladder horizontally, trying to get through an archway.
 

Say nothing. Wish him “good luck,” and get out of his way.

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